Kevin Stocker
I’ve always been fascinated by how ballparks shape memories. I’ve talked to umpires, stars, and rookies—and when I asked Kevin Stocker about standing on that line in the 1993 World Series, you could hear the awe still in his voice. The sound, the nerves, the noise—it was different in Philly than Toronto, but equally electric. Stocker remembers wishing he’d looked around more, taken it in. He laughs about whistling to Wade Boggs and still gets thanked for that ’93 team. Listening to him, you remember: sometimes the park isn’t just a place you play—it’s where your life happens.
You played in the World Series—what’s it like standing on the line before Game 1?
There are two feelings—the one in the moment and the one looking back decades later. At the time, you’re focused and nervous, playing with blinders on. Standing in Toronto with that World Series logo up there—it was loud, raucous, different than Philly. But when I look back now, I wish I’d looked around more. You don’t realize how special it is until much later.
You had that in both Philly and Toronto. Looking back 31 years later, how does it feel now?
Back then, you’re nervous but locked in. Now I have a lot more respect for what it took to get there. We didn’t have social media or the noise you see today. Ballparks felt different then—simpler, more focused. One thing that blew me away was the amount of media. Batting practice looked like a circus—Time Magazine, Newsweek, people everywhere. It was surreal. I’ll never forget that.
After all that, then the heartbreak—what do you remember from Joe Carter’s home run?
I thought it was a fly ball to left. I ran out thinking, “Okay, make a play.” Then it went over the wall—“You gotta be kidding me.” I didn’t even watch their celebration. I walked to the dugout, took my cleats off, sat there. Quiet. Nobody threw anything, nobody yelled. It took about 30 minutes before anyone spoke. Eventually guys started shaking hands, realizing what we’d accomplished. We were proud. We respected what Joe did. We loved each other—that team was special.
That ’93 team is still legendary in Philly. What was it like to feel that love from the fans?
It’s incredible. People still stop me and say, “Thanks for ’93.” Not “good job”—thank you. That means something. We were relatable—gritty, fun, a band of characters. You could be yourself on that team. Fregosi let us play free. Philly fans connected to that authenticity.
Then you go from that to an expansion team in Tampa Bay. Total opposite experience?
Big time. I didn’t want to leave Philly, but I talked myself into it. Tampa was brand new—they were still figuring things out. I told someone I played for the Devil Rays and they asked if it was a new soccer team! Ownership didn’t even have a kids’ room for players’ families. We had to teach them how baseball families worked. It was wild.
And the fans?
Opening Day sold out, then 10,000 people showed up the next night. Big adjustment. Philly fans boo you but they care. Down there, if you won, they’d show up; if not, they’d go surfing. I missed that passion. You realize how special Philly was once you leave.
Then you play with Wade Boggs and Fred McGriff—two Hall of Famers. What was that like?
They gave us credibility, but they weren’t vocal leaders. I became good friends with Fred—we’d golf together. Wade had this funny thing where he wouldn’t answer if you called his name. He said too many people had shouted it over the years. He told me, “You have to whistle.” So that’s how I got his attention all season—whistling at Wade Boggs. I was on the field for his 3,000th hit—a home run in his hometown. That was amazing. Perfect ending for a legend.
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More from Kevin Stocker
NOTE: The above was edited for clarity and length.
You can read the full transcript here.